


Winter's Tale

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Holidays, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the darkest days of winter, a Solstice story of light and the beginnings of hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Special Challenge part of Round Four of the Dramione Awards. The holiday/winter prompts were a snowflake, an ornament, fairy lights, and a kiss.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Multitudes of stars glittered like sharp diamond chips in the blue-black sky overhead. It was the coldest night on record in southern England, certainly the most frigid anyone in Wiltshire could recall in many a year.

And yet, strangely, there had been no snow. It was the talk of the village of Castle Combe, had been for weeks now. By this time in years past—the third week of December--the ground was always covered in a crusty veneer of snow and ice. The denizens of the White Hart, a venerable old pub in the village, couldn’t help remarking on it as they nursed their pints on this frosty evening.

One such denizen was drinking alone in one of several interconnected secret rooms upstairs. It was the part of the pub that catered to the wizarding clientele of the area, and as such, was known only to them. It had been that way for six hundred years.

Morosely, the young man pushed the fringe of blond hair out of his eyes as he lifted the glass and drained it. Being home from school for the winter holidays this year was not the joyful experience he felt sure it must be for his classmates. About the only good things, the way he reckoned it, were that his father was in prison-- and that, being the scion of the oldest, most powerful and influential wizarding family in the shire, he could get served at the White Hart, despite the fact that technically, he was still underage by six months. Drinking himself blind had become a rather attractive option lately. At least when he was utterly pissed, he didn’t have to hear the voices inside his head, nor think about the task that was waiting for him—relentless and insidious-- back at school.

“’Nother of the same, Charles,” he slurred in the general direction of the publican, who raised an eyebrow and carefully put down the glass he had been polishing.

“Certain that’s a good idea, young Master Malfoy?” the publican asked kindly. “I believe you have had enough for tonight.”

“I’ll decide when I’ve had ‘nough!” the young man replied belligerently, his clenched fist coming down hard on the polished wood of the bar. “Who d’you think you are? My father?” He looked away for a moment and a caustic laugh escaped him. “Hah! Like my father would give a fuck one way or the other.” He looked up, his gaze bleary and slightly unfocused. “I _said_ another of the same.”

Charles shook his head, but poured out another pint glass of the amber-coloured Serpe d’Or, a house favourite amongst the regulars. He set it down in front of the young man just as the latter’s head came to rest none too gently on the bar. Smiling ruefully, the publican took the ale away and regarded his young customer. He knew Draco Malfoy as well as anyone did in the local wizarding community, had done since the boy was very young in fact, and he recognised that something was troubling him deeply. He only hoped that whatever it was would be resolved before too long. Bar-keeping was his stock in trade, but he didn’t like to see someone already drowning himself in drink at such a young age.

In the meantime, he could try to make the boy comfortable, as he was clearly in no condition to Apparate home. Slinging a limp arm over his shoulder, he hoisted Draco up and manoeuvred him to a small, adjacent room containing a sofa. Here he deposited his charge, limbs sprawled and head lolling to one side. He was already out cold.

 

*

 

The dream was the same one he’d had several times before, only this time, despite the drink—or perhaps because of it-- the details were somehow more sharply delineated as they played themselves out.

In the dream, he was walking along the road that led from the outskirts of the village up the hill to the Manor. The only light on this lonely road was that which came from the moon and stars overhead, the only sound that of his boots crunching against the frost-rimed path. Eventually, he reached the imposing house he would one day inherit. Weary and heartsore, he lingered on the stone veranda, surveying the ancient holdings spread out before him, a legacy he no longer wanted any part of, one that left a bitter taste in his mouth with all that it represented.

And then he turned at a small sound behind him. One of the French doors leading into the dining room had opened, and a young woman stood there, quietly gazing at him. He realised that although he couldn’t see her face clearly, he knew her, understood that she was important—no, _central_ —to his life. There was something very familiar about her too, something he tried yet again, within the consciousness of the dream, to pin down. Something about the way she held herself, perhaps, or the cloud of soft hair surrounding her small, oval face.

All he knew for certain was that she was smiling at him, and the smile was warming his aching heart as nothing ever had before.

“It’s Solstice,” she said, holding her arms out to him, and the voice was one he recognised as well, though the reason for its familiarity wasn’t clear.

Nevertheless, he knew somehow that they belonged to each other. A sense of comfort and safety and _home_ radiated from her almost palpably, and without a second thought, he moved into her arms and let her stroke his hair and press her small hands to his back, drawing him closer.

“The longest night of the year,” she murmured, turning in his arms and gazing up at the sky. “We can count all the stars tonight.”

And indeed, the stars were scattered in the blackened winter sky in a brilliant, incandescent tapestry.

And then, it began to snow. Very lightly at first, the flakes drifted down in tiny, glittering white sparks, eddying in small whorls whenever a small, chill breeze kicked up.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, tightening his arms around her and holding her close.

“Watch this. It gets better,” she said softly, and waved her arm with a flourish.

Before their eyes, some of the larger snowflakes drifting down in gentle spirals began to transform, growing and reshaping themselves into tiny human forms, each one pulsing with its own internal light. They danced and cavorted playfully amongst their fellows in the chill breeze that swept the snowflakes down and drove the clouds to blanket the stars.

Impulsively, he reached out and plucked one of the glowing snow faeries from the air, fingers closing momentarily and then opening again as he and the young woman looked at what lay in his palm.

“I should have warned you,” she sighed. “They cannot be caught. The spell is broken if you try.”

And indeed, what now rested in his palm was no more than a shard of cut glass, merely ornamental, no more than a crude, manmade imitation of a snowflake.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

Turning again in his arms so that they faced each other, she lifted her chin, inviting him closer. He bent his head, seeking the warmth of her mouth, intoxicated by the delicate fragrance of her hair. It was always at this moment that he awoke, frustrated that her kiss had once again eluded him just as surely as her identity.

 

*

 

Returning to Hogwarts for the start of classes in January meant a return of the dread that settled over him again like a dead weight. Somehow, most days, he managed to carry on without revealing the creeping fear that threatened to consume him from the inside. But it was always there, evil and rapacious.

He wasn’t eating well, and had lost weight. Always slender, now he seemed to be disappearing inside his own clothing. He was pale, too, and dark circles had appeared beneath his eyes because sleep had become a luxury. More often than not, he found himself restlessly wandering the corridors of the castle after hours like one of the resident ghosts, trying to stay one step ahead of Filch.

One night not long after his return, Draco found himself passing the Room of Requirement. Noises from inside sparked his curiosity, and despite himself, he poked his head through the doorway.

Apparently, there had been a private, belated New Year’s party there earlier in the evening. Scant evidence of the festivities remained here and there. One lone figure remained now, tidying up and putting away the decorations.

It was Granger. He’d know that hair anywhere, for starters. Silently, he watched from the doorway as she set about Vanishing the odd bit of rubbish from the floor. Then, she began carefully pulling down strings of faerie lights and artificial snowflakes that hung from the walls and ceiling. Suddenly, she stopped, moving to one of the casements and opening the window on the frigid night air.

It had begun to snow.

Without knowing why or what he intended, exactly, Draco found himself walking towards her. He stopped a scant foot behind her, unsure of what to say or do next.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” she said quietly, without turning around. “I love watching the snow.”

He wondered who she thought was standing behind her. And yet, he felt curiously free at that moment. Somehow, all bets were off. They were completely alone, nobody around to watch or overhear, nobody’s expectations to meet. And so he answered her simply and without the usual rancour.

“So do I. It’s like--”

“Fireflies. Or faeries. Snow faeries, all bright and perfect.” She laughed at herself a little, and then turned to look at him curiously. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

He glanced around, vaguely embarrassed. “I don’t know, really. Do you mind?”

She didn’t answer, instead reaching for a half-empty bottle of firewhisky from the table.

“Happy New Year, Malfoy,” she said. Taking a swig, she held out the bottle to him. There was a curious, half-teasing smile on her face, almost as if she were just waiting to see what he would do with her offer, half-invitation and half-challenge.

Surprising both her and himself, he took the bottle from her and tossed back a healthy swallow. “Happy New Year, Granger,” he replied, the potency of the whisky forcing an involuntary shudder.

When the bottle was finally empty, they sat sprawled on the floor, back to back. She was warm against him, her body helping to prop his up and the firewhisky blazing a heated trail down his gullet to the pit of his stomach, making him loose-limbed and uncaring of anything beyond the moment.

Eventually, with some effort, he managed to turn himself partway around so that he could see her face. Her head still rested on his shoulder.

“Here, Malfoy, have a snowflake,” she said, her words a bit slurred. “I was going to keep it as a souvenir, but you can have it. Yule present.”

She dug into a pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small object, pressing it into his palm. It was one of the faceted glass ornaments that had decorated the room for the party.

Surprised, he found his fingers closing around the ornament and her hand as well. He was just processing how small and warm it was in his when she turned her head suddenly and her hair, unruly as always, brushed his cheek. The curls were soft and smelled really nice, like… something fruity. Apricots.

All at once, an overwhelming, unreasoning urge swept him, and suddenly it seemed essential that he act on it. For once in his life, Draco Malfoy allowed pure instinct to guide him. Twisting the rest of the way around so that he was facing her, he gripped Hermione’s shoulders. Her head lolled slightly and her eyes were half-shut, a tiny smile playing about her lips.

“Malfoy, whatever are you d––” she giggled.

And then he kissed her.

She tasted of drink and the crisps she’d had earlier, and at first she was smiling against his lips in surprise, on the verge of laughter again. And then very suddenly, she stilled, and her lips began moving beneath his in quite another way.

He couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to devour her, lose himself in her, forget everything except this delectable softness and sweetness and warmth.

Finally, they had to stop in order to catch their breaths. There was an awkward silence then, both of them breathing hard, surprised at themselves and at each other, embarrassed at the intensity of what had just happened between them.

Reluctant to leave and yet needing to get away suddenly, Draco got to his feet and offered a hand to Hermione, pulling her up beside him. Shyly, she looked away, studying her hands.

“Well... thanks for the drink, Granger…” he began tentatively.

“Happy New Year, Malfoy,” she replied. Her voice was very soft, almost as if she were talking to herself. “’Night.”

“’Night,” he echoed, backing away.

Heading back to the Slytherin dungeons, he slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out the glass snowflake, sharp and shiny in his palm. He whispered her name once, a brief smile crossing his face, and walked on, feeling curiously light. Strange that he’d never noticed before what a pretty name it was.

 

 

Fin


End file.
